“Oh, that late, huh?” Flannery grimaced, looking down at her own wristwatch. “Real sorry, Junior. I have it now; you can get on back home to Tonya and the baby.”
Flannery knew Junior worked the day shift, coming in every day in the long, fat hours of morning darkness. He hated having to work during the evenings, fussed about being away from his new baby. Chubby Ray always took extra pains to make sure his son wouldn’t have to.
“If I’d known it was the fair and faithful Flan, I would’ve stayed put,” Junior teased, a spray of freckles playing on his face.
She smiled some. She’d become friends with the young family, babysitting their littlest whenever they called on her. “Well, I’m working Patsy’s shift. Guess Chubby got mixed up.”
Junior raised a bushy brow. “If I recall, you worked the Cupid’s dance for her—”
“I need the extra money, is all,” she said hurriedly. “Where’s Chubby?”
“Stepped next door to the hardware. And, Flan, extra jack ain’t gonna get it.” Junior thumped the old wooden worktable with a fist, looked down at her legs. “Gonna need a lot more than pay if Pop catches you working naked-leg like that,” he warned kindly.
Behind them, Chute chuckled over the grill, his ink-black face glowing from the heat of the flames, his arms laddered with pinkish-white scars from spitting grease and stove burns.
“You see that?” Junior smiled. “Even ol’ Chute knows—knows to wear his bow tie.”
“Better listen, Flan,” Chute said. “Bossman’ll go off like one of them atomic bombs they have in that new uranium plant over there in McCraken County. Boom boom,” Chute murmured over the rows of cooking burgers, piles of onions, stopping long enough to turn up the volume on the radio perched on the shelf above him. Quietly, he hummed along to the Andrew Sisters’ “Rum and Cola-Cola.”
Junior adjusted his own tie.
Chubby Ray had a strict dress code for soda jerks, all his employees. The boys’ pants had to be creased; shirts, a crisp white, collared, with a red bow tie. A girl’s uniform, no shorter than one finger above the knee with a long stretch of hosiery covering the legs.
Flannery peeked out the kitchen door, looking to see if Patsy had shown up. Music streamed from the jukebox as Frankie Laine rolled out a snappy “Mule Train” into the ribbony clouds of cigarette smoke and Emeraude perfume.
Girls in long showy dresses hung on to the arms of spiffy-looking country boys doused in Mennen and Old Spice; the fellers wore white and dark jackets, sported colorful pocket kerchiefs and lapel boutonnieres. Full of that once-a-year fever, a hark to a lifetime remembrance they piled around the jukebox and over at the polished chrome-plated counter with its five swivel stools, chatting, smoking, eyeing one another and everyone else’s fancy duds.
Two of the four red vinyl booths had already filled with the revelers. Again, Flannery looked around for Patsy, but didn’t see her or the Henry boys. For a second, concern set in, but just as quick, relief. Relief at not having to wait on her, and draw knowing eyes to her own pathetic, dateless predicament. She hoped they wouldn’t stop for sodas, instead would go straight to the dance.
Picking up a tray of water glasses, she told Junior, “It’s getting packed out there. First break, I’ll go grab a box of hosiery in the drugstore. Promise. Right now I better get those booths.”
“Flan, you grab ’em; I’ll stab them.” Chute pierced a pickle with a fork, dropped it onto a plate beside a greasy burger, chuckling.
Flannery stopped at the first booth and gave the couples each a glass of water, then took their order of malts and sodas.
At the second booth, Violet Perry and another girl, Bess, sat pretty and poised with their dates. They quieted when Flannery delivered their glasses.
“What would you like?” Flannery handed out the water, lifted the pen and Guest Check booklet out of her apron pocket.
“Oh, it’s you, Flannery,” Violet said, pulling up her gaze, flicking at the satin sleeves of her powdery-pink prom dress, inspecting her wristlet of tiny rosebuds.
Flannery braved a cautious smile at the pastor’s daughter.
Violet picked up her cigarette from the ashtray, and with her other hand tapped the table with a long, painted nail. “It’s a shame you’re working tonight. Shame.” She poked the pity to her friends, who batted it around the table. “Shame, Patsy hung you out to dry again.” She pursed her pouty pink lips, took a drag off her cigarette, and stubbed it out in the little four-welled glass ashtray, wagging her head, stamping out a string of “tsk-tsks” with it.
Flannery felt her cheeks burn. She pressed the serving tray to her chest, wishing she could cover her face with it and disappear. “Um, shake, or soda, or . . . ?” she mumbled.
The boys called out for lime rickeys and a banana boat and fries. Bess ordered a Cherry Crush cola.
“What about you?” Flannery poked her chin Violet’s way.
“Hmm, lemme see.” Violet pressed a finger to her rouge-colored cheek. “I suppose I’ll have a strawberry sundae.”
“One or two scoops?” Flannery asked.
“Well, two . . . Who wouldn’t want two scoops of fun?” She lifted her answer to the table.
The boys bobbed their heads stupidly. Choked laughter rumbled under their clenched bow ties.
Bess grinned slyly and said, “Why, if Patsy was working, she’d know it was two.”
Violet pulled a glass to her mouth, sniggering between sips. She set it down, smacked her lips, and said, “Looks like her sister is having two delicious scoops this evening. Where’s your twin and those Henry boys, that devilish duo?”
From behind, Chubby Ray called, “Flannery, grab another bucket of vanilla from the freezer.”
Flannery stabbed Violet with a glare and turned, bumping into the shy, but cute Wendell Black, the soda jerk she’d hoped to get Miss Little to approve.
“Flannery,” Violet and her gang sang out laughingly, “you forgot to empty our ashtray.”
Flannery tried to sidestep around Wendell. Awkward, the soda jerk danced in front of her a second, reaching out for her arms. “I’ll get it, Flan,” he finally said, slipping past her.
“Flat-tire-Flan couldn’t catch a beau even if he landed on her,” Violet cackled, loud enough for everyone to hear.
Bess chimed, “Can you believe Miss Able Grable got two—two dates to escort her? She got—” Secret giggles fell into the boys’ horsey laughter.
Shaking with anger, Flannery pinned the tickets onto the order wheel and hurried back to the walk-in freezer for the ice cream, slipping inside. On the floor lay a broken milk bottle. She kicked at the mess someone had left, slamming the door behind her, the light lost with its click.
Darkness took hold, and she closed her eyes and locked fingers against her eyelids. A tiny catch of tears rubbed at her throat. “Don’t cry, don’t cry,” she begged, pressing her palms down, squeezing. “Don’t,” she commanded. “Not on prom night. Not here. Not now.”
A trickle of disobedience slipped out onto her cheek. Another and two more, until her burning eyes were soaked in them, cheeks stinging from the raw, frigid air of the fan.
For a minute or so she let her sorrow empty into the coldness until a bump on the steel panel jolted her.
Chubby Ray swung open the door.
Blinded, Flannery squinted and fumbled for her apron to dab her eyes.
“Where’s my ice cream—” Chubby Ray pulled Flannery from the freezer. “What’s this? Look at this broken glass.” He pointed to the floor, then jabbed a finger toward her legs. “Where are your stockings, Flannery Butler?”
Over by the grill, Chute turned up the radio even louder.
“Where are they?” Chubby pressed.
“Someone dropped a milk bottle, and I was—”
“Get your stockings on now,” Chubby Ray snapped.
“I can’t. They tore on my way to work.”
“You know the rules.”
“Yes, sir. But I ripped them—”